


Moondust

by kirja_rouva



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Rating subject to change, Sadlock, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-03
Updated: 2016-09-16
Packaged: 2018-05-18 00:12:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 13,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5890564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kirja_rouva/pseuds/kirja_rouva
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of chapters/episodes in which Sherlock is forced to face his feelings towards Irene Adler. Will he accept them, or will he erase them–and her?</p><p>Inspired by the lyric "I long to hear your voice, but still I make the choice to bury my love".</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Karachi, Pakistan

**Author's Note:**

> Please leave comments/notes as I plan on expanding this work and would love to hear what directions you'd like me to explore.

Any other night, any other couple, and the tableau might have appeared to be romantic. Sherlock and the Woman walked slowly, hand-in-hand, towards the dock in the pre-dawn night, a case held in his other hand. Every other step they swayed into each other, bodies briefly touching and then retreating a few inches the way familiar people do. They made their way to the water’s edge and stood there, watching a distant barge make it’s approach. The sight seemed to elicit a strange response in the pair of them and they turned quickly to each other, pressing their bodies and mouths together with ferocious fervour.

To an outsider this was a new relationship. A man and a woman lost in the haze of new love, of the thrill of adventure. But not twenty minutes later the woman would board the barge alone and the man would leave without a second glance.

 

Irene was warm against him in the chilly dawn air; even warmer were her hands against his face and neck. He still wasn’t quite sure what to do with his own hands, and settled with wrapping them around her waist. She seemed to like the closer contact, and moaned encouragingly into his mouth. Suddenly he was wishing that they were back in their hotel room instead of at a dock waiting to ship her off. Why hadn’t he extended his stay? Why had he planned with no room for emotional deviation?

These thoughts were cut off when the faint hoot of the approaching barge sounded and Irene pulled away slightly. “Come with me,” she whispered. She sounded almost giddy, suggesting such a preposterous thing. “Come away with me.”

It seemed as though time had suspended for Sherlock. He looked down at her upturned face: eyes bright with hunger, her nose and cheeks a light pink from the cold, her dark hair hanging around her shoulders. He couldn’t see any artifice in her request, his accompanying her wouldn’t empower or weaken her, it would only add to her pleasure—and his, he realised.

In the span of two seconds Sherlock saw everything: he saw himself picking up her case and walking onto the barge with her. He saw them standing on the deck until Karachi was just a smudge on the horizon, and then rushing down to her room to make love again and again until they reached India. He saw them flying to Indonesia, and then to Tasmania, locked in blissful sunshine and heat and each other’s minds. He saw himself forsaking absolutely everything and that’s what stopped him cold, what made him come back to reality in Pakistan and take a step back from her.

That one foot of separation told the Woman everything she needed to know, and she mirrored it with one of her own. Sherlock could see disappointment and some hurt behind her eyes before she slipped her cool mask over it. They stood staring at each other until the barge docked and until a man started shouting that it was leaving soon.

Mutely, Irene stooped to pick up the case Sherlock had brought for her and stepped forward to press a chaste kiss to the underside of his jaw.

“You’ll miss me, Mr Holmes,” she murmured.

“No,” he said automatically.

A pained smile crossed her features. “You couldn’t pretend, not even for a moment, could you?”

With that, she was gone.

And when the boat pulled away, Sherlock was filled with a terrible compulsion to chase after it, yelling her name. It felt as though part of him were splintering away every inch she moved from him. The pain and need was so overwhelming that it actually brought Sherlock back to his senses.

 _No_ , he thought firmly. _It was right of you to allow her to leave, and it was wrong of you to fall prey to sentiment. She pulls you away from your work, from your world, from London and John and Molly and Lestrade and Mrs Hudson and even Mycroft. She’s a distraction and we know what good distractions are._ Suddenly he was not in Pakistan, but in a drug den in Brixton he had often frequented and been carried out of. He saw himself, dirty and nearly unrecognisable, in the corner of a squalid room pressing the plunger down on a syringe in his arm and expelling an orgasmic sigh.

How like the drug the Woman had been, how like a drug she was.

And again he was transported within his mind to his brother Mycroft’s office, who was looming over him like a giant. _‘You’ve got to get over her, Sherlock, or she’ll take over your life, just as the cocaine did. You’ll kill yourself seeking something you can’t have.’_

With a gasp, Sherlock pitched out of his reverie and turned on his heel and made his way to the car. Inside were his clothes and travel documents and the lingering smell of the Woman, but he pushed that detail aside. He was right to let her go, and he was right to part without returning her sentiment. Both of them would be safer if he forgot about her, or at least how he had felt about her. On the drive to the airport he placed each maudlin memory of her into padlocked boxes and stored them in his deepest vaults, where he kept things he never wanted to see again but that served as important reminders. These memories would show him how close he had been to leaving the only life that was suitable for him for a _woman_. Threatening his carefully curated way of life would not do, so he buried his love.


	2. Baker Street, Marylebone, London, UK

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Set the day that John tells Sherlock that Irene Adler has managed to get herself into Witness Protection. The day he asks for her phone.

Mycroft had been standing in front of Speedy’s Sandwich Bar & Café for 22 seconds when Sherlock deduced that he wasn’t coming up, but was instead waiting for someone. He was not taking refuge inside, so he clearly wanted to be spotted by who he was meeting, and he was smoking, which meant that he was stressed and upset. Down at the end of the street he could just make out the figure of John Watson striding along through the rain and knew that he was who Mycroft was waiting for. Clearly this meant that they had no intention of speaking within the confines of 221B, and would most likely convene inside the sandwich shop, which in turn suggested that they meant to discuss something without him.

Quickly Sherlock made his way downstairs, outside around the back, and into the back kitchen of Speedy’s with an acknowledging nod of his head to Mr Chatterjee. Positioning himself just on the other side of the door, he could make out the low tones of his brother and John conversing.

“It’s the file on Irene Adler?” he heard John ask, and his pulse spiked. _Why were they discussing The Woman?_

            “Closed forever,” Mycroft replied, and Sherlock could just detect a note of weary contentment. “I am about to go and inform my brother, or, if you prefer, you are, that she somehow got herself into a Witness Protection scheme in America.”

            Something about that story tasted stale in Sherlock’s mouth. _America? Why on earth would she go there?_ More importantly, this meant that Mycroft hadn’t been fooled by Sherlock’s attempt to fake her death, and therefore Moriarty more than likely knew as well. His pulse escalated to the point of panic, and he contemplated rushing away to try and contact her.

            “…she will survive…and thrive,” Mycroft continued. “But he will never see her again.”

            “Why would he care?” John asked. _Why indeed?_ “He despised her at the end. Won’t even mention her by name, just The Woman.”

            Briefly, Sherlock was glad that he was able to convince someone of his indifference in affection towards The Woman. He began to hate his body’s reaction to hearing that she might be in danger. _A distraction. Thousands of miles away and still a distraction._

            “Is that loathing, or a salute?” Mycroft returned, and Sherlock felt himself cringe deep down. He detested how his older brother could cut down into the centre of him almost effortlessly. “One of a kind: the one woman who matters?”

            “He’s not like that,” John replied, his tone sure. “He doesn’t feel things that way…I don’t think.” Again, Sherlock was pleased to hear his friend’s perception of him: much closer to the way he wished the world to view him.

            “My brother has the brain of a scientist or a philosopher, yet he elects to be a detective. What might we deduce about his heart?”

            The heart that was still hammering away in agony of not knowing where The Woman was, or if she was even alive.

            “I don’t know,” John replied without hesitation.

            “Neither do I,” Mycroft admitted. “But initially he wanted to be a pirate.”

            There was a moment of silence as both of the men mulled over what had just been said and revealed about their mutual friend, and Sherlock itched to hear more, knowing somehow that there was more to be said on the subject of Irene Adler. Finally, John spoke.     

“He’ll be okay with this, Witness Protection, never seeing her again, he’ll be fine.”

“I agree,” Mycroft said gravely, his tone not matching his words. He inhaled deeply through his nose as though he were about to hand down a death sentence. “That’s why I decided to tell him that.”

“Instead of what?”

“She’s dead,” Mycroft replied in a monotone voice. Sherlock hovered between the relief that his ploy had worked, and the terror that she had been caught again and killed with Mycroft’s knowledge. “She was captured by a terrorist cell in Karachi two months ago and beheaded.”

“It’s definitely her? She’s done this before.”

“I was thorough this time,” Mycroft asserted. “It would take Sherlock Holmes to fool me…and I don’t think he was on hand, do you?”

The relief Sherlock felt was palpable. If Mrs Hudson had passed by he would have seized her and kissed her cheeks enthusiastically. His exercise in fooling his brother, in saving The Woman and paying her back for destroying her life had not failed. He could finally put this whole part of his life behind him. He didn’t need to hear anything else, but instead made his way back into his flat and positioned himself at the table in the kitchen and busied himself with looking at some samples Lestrade had sent over.

He was still engrossed in this project—almost to the point of completely zoning out—when John’s steps sounded on the stairs up to the flat.

“Clearly you’ve got news,” Sherlock said, not breaking eye contact from his work, as was his character. “If it’s about the Leeds triple murder, it was the gardener. Did nobody notice the earring?”

John entered the room, damp from the rain with a plastic packet under his arm.

_Ah, so John had volunteered to deliver the good news._

“Hi,” John said, and then cleared his throat, plainly flustered. “Uh, no, um…it’s about Irene Adler.”

Sherlock schooled his expression into one of polite inquiry and curiosity, it would be natural to be interested in the subject of an old case, particularly if that subject was supposed to be a fugitive from the British government. “Well? Has something happened? Has she come back?”

John was struggling between which story he would tell Sherlock. “No, no, she’s…uh…I’ve just bumped into Mycroft downstairs, he had to take a call…” _Stalling._         

Sherlock rose from his seat at the table and moved to stand in front of John, which probably didn’t make things easier for him. “Is she back in London?”

“No. She’s, uh…” a deep breath that seemed to give him enough courage to look at Sherlock’s face. “She’s in America.”

“America?” Sherlock repeated, as though he hadn’t heard a word that was said downstairs. He was quietly glad that it was John who had been elected to give him the news, he wondered if he would have been able to behave according to Mycroft’s expectations.

John made a noise of agreement. “Got herself on a Witness Protection scheme, apparently.” _Almost word for word, John. You’re no good at unrehearsed lies, are you?_ “I don’t know how she swung it, but…well, you know.”

“I know what?” Sherlock shot back.

“Well, you won’t be able to see her again.” Sherlock wondered at this turn in the conversation. Did John hope to discover Sherlock’s true feelings on The Woman?

“Why would I want to see her again?”

“Didn’t say you did,” John said quietly as Sherlock turned to return to his previous work at the table.

“Is that her file?”

“Yes, I was just going to take it back to Mycroft,” John replied, which Sherlock thought was odd. Why bring the file up, let him see it, and then take it away again? Surely it was some sort of test, one that he would have ignored were it not for the sight of The Woman’s Vertu phone through the plastic. “Do you want to…?”

“No,” Sherlock said emphatically.

There was silence as Sherlock tried to focus on the samples in front of him, though he could practically hear John’s brain whirring.

“Listen, actually…”

John was going to tell him that The Woman wasn’t actually in Witness Protection in America. He was going to tell him that that was a lie that Mycroft had constructed, but that he didn’t want to perpetuate. He was going to say that Irene Adler had been captured two months ago and executed in Karachi, that there was a video and that Mycroft had made sure that it was real. He was going to let his friend mourn this strange woman’s death in his own strange way, and then let him move on. After all, Sherlock had recovered from news of her death before, surely he could it again. He would think it more healthy that way--typical doctor.

Somehow, he couldn’t let any of those words be spoken, partly because he wasn’t sure how he was supposed to react to them, and partly because he had worked so hard to make them false.

“No, but I will have the camera-phone, though,” he interrupted, stretching his left hand out towards John but keeping his eyes on his work.

“There’s nothing on it anymore. It’s been stripped,” John replied.

“I know. But I…I’ll still have it.” He kept his arm outstretched, willing John to comply.

“I’ve got to get this back to Mycroft, you can’t keep it,” John argued. When Sherlock still kept his hand out, John kept going as though he were reasoning with a toddler. “Sherlock, I have to give this to Mycroft, it’s the government’s now. I couldn’t-”

“Please.”

_I’ve never begged for mercy in my life._

That’s what wore John down: please. He felt the weight of the mobile in his hand, but still refused to take his eyes off of the microscope. “Thank you,” he said as he tucked the phone away into his trouser pocket. The implication that he cared for The Woman because of this gesture smarted against his ego, but he assuaged it by assuring himself that it was only part of repaying his debt to her. How could he allow the British government--Mycroft--hold onto what was and had been, essentially, The Woman's heart? No, it would be far better to dwell at Baker Street, the flat was practically already it's home. No part of her should be caged and confined by people who would seek to snuff her out, and that phone was as much an extension of who she was as a riding crop in her hand.

“Well, I’d better take this back,” John supplied, probably gesturing to the packet of her things, sans phone.

“Yes.” He expected that John and Mycroft would have quite a long chinwag about the meaning of him keeping the phone, in the end he hoped it would be interpreted as his own form of taking a trophy, but more than likely it would humanise him.

John made his way out of the kitchen, but paused at the top of the stairs. “Did she ever text you again…after all that?”

“Once. A few months ago.”

“What did she say?”

“‘Good bye, Mr Holmes’.”

He felt John’s shock at the implication of that message, and he wondered if that had been too much. Perhaps the doctor would tell Sherlock that she was dead, but instead he stood in silence for a moment longer, and then departed. When the front door opened and then shut, signalling John’s exit, Sherlock rose from the table and crossed into the sitting room, mobile in hand.

His eyes glazed over as he remembered that moment when he’d received her last text, and that breathy moan he had eventually elicited from her himself filled the compound. He allowed himself a small smile. “The Woman,” he murmured as he scrolled through the wiped phone. Then, more softly, as he placed it in a drawer. “ _The_ Woman.”


	3. Dartmoor, Devon, UK

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's thoughts after solving the case of the hounds of Baskerville in Dartmoor. (Just in case it seems confusing: the text in italics depicts what is going on in Sherlock's mind palace.)

“So they didn’t have it put down then, the dog?” John asked as Sherlock set his mug of coffee down on the table outside the Cross Keys Pub.

            “Obviously,” he remarked as he took a sip from his own mug. The flavour didn’t do much for him, but there hadn’t been any tea to his liking and he thought the extra dose of caffeine would do him good.

            “I suppose they just couldn’t bring themselves to do it,” John continued, still cutting away at whatever infernal mess of food he had on his plate. Really, how he could even think of eating so soon after a case…

            “I see.”

            John paused at his response. “No you don’t,” he retorted.

            “No, I don’t,” Sherlock agreed with a frown. “Sentiment?”

            “Sentiment,” John affirmed.

 

_Sentiment? What on earth are you talking about?_

_You._

            As soon as John was done eating, Sherlock rushed him to the train station, anxious to catch the next one out of this strange town. The thrill of solving this particular case was nearly eclipsed by the worrying distrust Sherlock had experienced with his own mind. Without his mind he was nothing, he had often described his body merely as a vessel for his brain—the true centre of his being, hearts be damned.

            Grumbling, John had purchased his ticket and followed Sherlock to an empty carriage fiddling with a newspaper he had bought on the platform. As they sat across from each other, John started to speak, but Sherlock was already sinking deep into his mind. The business with Moriarty manifesting himself in the Hollow was intolerable, and similar episodes of that nature would not be endured.

            _“That was a funny act,” a familiar voice purred from what seemed miles away. “Pretending that sentiment is a foreign word, a foreign emotion, to you.”_

_Far below from where Sherlock stood in his mind there was a reverberating boom of a heavy door swinging open and slamming against a wall. Following that, there was the sound of stiletto heels clicking on stone, then wood, then marble. Up, up, up, the clicks went until he sensed that she was standing behind him._

_Not now, not now, he thought almost desperately. He had come to eliminate Jim Moriarty and cave in whatever tunnel he had made his way into his mind through. The last thing he wanted was to confront a being he thought he had successfully locked away, for she hadn’t made a peep since…_

_“The evening John told you that I was dead,” The Woman finished, standing just behind him. “The evening you kept my phone from him. I seem to remember something you said about holding onto another’s possessions—particularly a mobile—as a sign of sentiment.”_

_“You do_ not _remember it, those memories are_ mine _,” Sherlock growled, trying to keep his frustration in check as he began striding down a long corridor dotted with doors. He turned abruptly and entered a room that was a carbon copy of the lab he often frequented at St. Bart’s. On one of the counters was the piece of paper Moriarty had left him with his number on it. He picked it up, inspected it closely, and then tucked it away into his trouser pocket._

_“Am I not also a memory?” The Woman inquired. “Or are we two people inhabiting the same mind?”_

_“That’s impossible,” Sherlock retorted. “You’re merely an unwelcome form of hallucination.”_

_Silently, The Woman trailed behind him as he left the lab and descended a hidden staircase and entered a room that appeared to be an art gallery. He strode up to a painting of a night sky and stuck Moriarty’s note with his phone number on the wall next to it. Mercifully, The Woman stayed quiet as he wracked his brain for any information having to do with Jim Moriarty. He thought of the different suicide bombers Moriarty had put in place, of the painting that had stopped it all that he was now standing in front of._

_He thought of the public lido Moriarty had finally confronted him in, with John wrapped in Semtex, with the seeming inevitability of death until…Jim’s phone rang. His mind raced over the side of the conversation that he had been able to hear, and bits fell into place. He turned and surveyed The Woman who stood behind him and looked at her for the first time. Her hair was elegantly coiffed, diamonds glistened at her ears and on her hand, her eyelids were rimmed in turquoise and her lips painted red. And she was naked but for a pair of Louboutin heels—just as she had first appeared to him in person._

_“That was you,” he said, looking into her eyes. “That was you who called that night.”_

_The Woman looked at him wryly and shrugged her pale shoulders. “I only know what you know, Mr Holmes.”_

_He waved that away, nodding to himself. “It was your phone call that stopped him from killing John and me.”_

_“You’re welcome,” The Woman said silkily._

_“No, you couldn’t have known,” Sherlock said, batting that away. “No, but the information that you had was enough to stay his hand. Why, I wonder?”_

_“Perhaps he relished the idea seeing you undone by a woman, by another human being, on the most basic of levels,” The Woman supplied. “I am known for bringing out the best—and worst—in people.”_

_Shaking his head, Sherlock paced out of the gallery and entered a room that appeared to be the morgue in the basement of St Bart’s. On the table before him lay the decoy body of The Woman, a body he had been certain belonged to Irene Adler. The Woman observed her counterfeit body without emotion before locking her gaze on Sherlock’s face._

_“I was upset when I thought that you were dead,” Sherlock said finally, glancing up at The Woman almost guiltily. “I’m sure Jim knows that, I’m sure he’ll try to use that to his advantage. Perhaps this was his way of proving that we are not_ exactly _alike. I’m afraid he and Mycroft are more similar…And I am Mycroft’s weakness, just are you are—_ were _—mine.”_

_“Lucky thing Moriarty believes me to be dead.”_

_“How can you be so certain?”_

_“If Mycroft Holmes doesn’t know, then it does seem a bit ludicrous to believe that Moriarty does,” The Woman replied casually, calmly._

_Both were silent for a long while. Then: “This just reaffirms my decision: to let you go,” Sherlock said, and suddenly they were standing in Mycroft’s study once again, the light of the fire reflecting off of The Woman’s harsh couture dress. “Letting you be part of my life would only lead to my downfall, it would ruin me.”_

_The Woman tried to speak, but he cut her off with a downward stroke of his hand, freezing her in place. “When I sent you away on that barge, I was convinced that loving you would alter the way I live my life, it would change my lifestyle too much. But now I am sure that it would kill me. Because for a moment back there I would have died for you, and it would be a shame if Moriarty dangled you in front of me as I shot myself to pieces.”_

_“But what about John, and Mycroft, and your beloved Detective Inspector, and your landlady? What about them?”_

_“They cannot be helped,” Sherlock said simply. “They are already too deeply intertwined with me, and I can’t have the inconvenience of adding another life to my responsibilities. Besides, how would it look if I were forced to give my life for a Woman who tried to make the country—_ my _country—bow to her will? No, I’ve already saved England from you, now I shall probably have to save it from Moriarty too.”_

 _“How would it_ look _?” The Woman repeated incredulously. “You’re Sherlock Holmes, you don’t care how you_ look _.”_

_“If only that were true,” Sherlock replied, almost sadly. “Now, it’s time for you to go. I have work to do and I’m sure John is wondering why I’ve been away for so long. Good bye.”_

_And in an instant she was gone, and Sherlock was left alone in the fire-lit room. Mycroft was clearly the key to Moriarty; he was the one who connected all the pieces. If only he could find a way to get him to disclose what he knew about the man—the spider._

Calmly, Sherlock opened his eyes and observed John typing on his mobile as the countryside rushed away outside. He exhaled a long breath and felt grateful that they were hastening back to London. The countryside left him feeling uneasy. It was too open and sprawling with no place to hide. It reminded him too much of the estate he had spent most of his time at as a child and youth.

            John looked up at Sherlock inquiringly. “You back?”

            Sherlock nodded tightly. “Yes. Just had some cleaning up to do.”


	4. St Bart’s, West Smithfield, London, UK

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock confronting the Final Problem with the help of some friends, some present, some imagined.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the delay, but hopefully this (arduously) long chapter will make up for it. I've been struggling with the formatting and flow with this for way too long, so hopefully it's actually good and I'm not posting it out of frustration and hang-it-all-ness. 
> 
> Just in case the format confuses, I'd like to clear some things up. The italicised dialogue and text is all happening in Sherlock's mind. This is the first time I've had MindPalace!Irene appearing during a live-scene where Sherlock is canonically interacting with other characters, so it took a lot of ironing out. He's not blacking out when she speaks, but rather hearing her as though she were actually in the scene.

The lab door slammed shut behind John, furious at Sherlock’s callousness about Mrs Hudson being shot. Sherlock knew that she hadn’t been, but it was better to get John out of the way, it was how he and Mycroft had planned it—every way they planned it. John had to be gone for the majority of this. He was almost jittery at the realisation that he potentially held a code that could unravel all of Moriarty’s work. Even in the eleventh hour, John was serving his purpose magnificently. Just a few taps of his fingers on the countertop, mimicking Moriarty's tapping in Sherlock's flat, was all that was needed to send Sherlock in the right direction. There was a code, a definite method to the madness. With it, Sherlock would ensure that Richard Brook would sink back into obscurity—into nothingness—and James Moriarty would be exposed in the clear light of day.

            Truth be told, Sherlock had difficulty putting all of his faith in the plans he and Mycroft had developed that would ensure his own safety—or at least mortality. The prospect of entering some code, or saying some well-chosen words, instead of leaping off of a building (with Moriarty either being killed or taken into custody in the background) was much more attractive.

            But unlikely.

 

            He and Mycroft had planned for every contingency; even the unlikely ones and this one was so unlikely that they hadn’t even considered it. They had known that Moriarty would most likely hold the lives of the people around Sherlock as hostage, they had made a list of all of those people and then crossed out the ones that Sherlock could do without. The Woman had become very active in Sherlock’s mind when Mycroft asked him who was most important to him, but she had been shoved into a locked room and the door firmly shut in her face.

            Names and faces and data popped into Sherlock’s mind, and he said them aloud if Mycroft needed to know. Obviously, John Watson was the first and a given—Mycroft had already woven him into the plan. Then Mrs Hudson, DI Lestrade. The list had stopped there. No, he didn’t think their extended families would be targeted; no, he didn’t care if they were. Harriet Watson hadn’t been present in years, Lestrade’s wife was dreadful, and Mrs Hudson’s family was too obscure to be worth tracking down.

            Then Molly Hooper’s face had appeared. And he’d paused—just for a millisecond.

            _“She matters,”_ The Woman had said, appearing beside Sherlock in Mycroft’s government office. The picture was ludicrous, almost hilarious.

            _“What?”_ Sherlock had replied sharply. _“No she doesn’t.”_

 _“Not the way_ I _do,”_ The Woman said smugly, and it chafed. He’d have to do something about her, but now was not the time. _“She matters in the way no one would suspect. Moriarty has already discounted her. She’s the key.”_

 

His mobile chimed, he didn’t need to see who it was from, but he looked anyway.

            _I’m waiting…_

            He rose and shrugged into his coat as he left the lab, his brow deeply furrowed. In the corridor he nearly ran into Molly, who was panting slightly.

            “I saw John leave,” she said by way of greeting. “He looked angry.”

            Sherlock kept walking and she followed. “He was informed that Mrs Hudson has been shot and I refused to go see her.”

            Molly looked taken aback. “Sherlock—”

            “She hasn’t really. It’s just a diversion. He’ll be back when he realises he’s wrong, and by then we’ll be almost done. Are you prepared?”

            She nodded. “The body in the morgue is ready. Some of Mycroft’s men are stationed there. The rest are in a room close to the rooftop entrance.”

            A little tension leeched from Sherlock’s shoulders as he nodded. They had reached the rooftop entrance, and he was glad to see that there was no evidence that would suggest that Mycroft’s men were anywhere near here. He turned just before opening the door that led to the stairwell and regarded the small pathologist.

            “I can’t begin to thank you for what you’ve done, what you will do.”

            She blushed and looked down at her feet. “It’s fine, Sherlock.” It was as though he’d asked her to drop him off at Heathrow, not the top of a building and then cover it all up.

            “Remember: don’t say anything to John. He cannot know.” With that, he turned on his heel and marched up the stairs. As the door shut behind him he sensed The Woman walking beside him.

            _“Why is it you can admit that you care for her—that little mouse—and not me?”_ The Woman mused as he paused by the rooftop entrance. Sherlock tilted his head back with a sigh and briefly shut his eyes as her voice washed over him. She never had anything pleasant to say, but her voice was comforting in that moment. In his mind’s eye she was really standing in front of him, wearing his favourite coat and smelling sweetly of _Casmir_.

            _“Because she’s_ useful _,” Sherlock replied with a casual sort of callousness. “She’s the reason I’m not going to die today. Why nobody is going to die today.”_

_“Useful?” The Woman repeated sceptically._

_“Yes. Mrs Hudson provides me shelter and is a far more manageable matronly figure than my own mother; John reminds me how to interact with other humans, is the closest thing I have to a friend; Lestrade’s incompetence and reliance on me is the reason I’m not back in rehab. I need all of these people to function. I don’t need you.”_

_“But you_ want _me,” The Woman countered._

_“Certainly. Possibly. I also want cocaine, but that would destroy everything. You and cocaine both seem to possess the extraordinary talent of working my mind to its maximum capacity. But you both have the same sort of habit-forming qualities that are followed by crippling dependence.” The Woman seemed about to say something, but he interrupted her—a luxury he surely wouldn’t be able to afford in the real world. “If you weren’t a traitorous criminal with the most powerful and dangerous people in the world after you, if you still lived in London, perhaps our…relationship would be different. Manageable. But you are and you don’t, so really this is all pointless.”_

_“You called Mrs Hudson ‘manageable’. It seems you have trouble letting in the people who don't let themselves be dictated to by you. Let’s see how long you can_ manage _Moriarty before you need me to help you.”_

_Like a spectre she vanished, seemingly of a separate accord than his own, and he opened his eyes._

            He drew a lungful of air and pushed the door open with purpose and strode out onto the roof.

A figure was sitting on the ledge, a mobile held loosely in it's hand. Sunlight streamed down on the two men as an obnoxious disco beat played faintly, a strange juxtaposition. “Well,” Moriarty said, by way of greeting, and as usual he sounded bored to death. “Here we are at last. You and me, Sherlock. And our problem, the final problem: _stayin’ alive_... It’s so _boring_ , isn’t it?” Moriarty continued in an exasperated tone. He shut off the music on his mobile with a loud click and gestured out towards the horizon, his form tense. “It’s just _staying_.” Jim dropped his head into the crease of his elbow and rubbed his eyes. “All my life I’ve been searching for a distraction and you were the best distraction, and now I don’t even have you,” he lamented. “Because I’ve beaten you. And you know what?” A look of distain passed over his face. “In the end, it was easy…. It was easy. Now I’ve got to go back to playing with the ordinary people. And it turns out _you’re_ ordinary, just like all of them.” He dropped his face into his hands, as though all of this pained him, and in a way it did. Sherlock remained silent, not wanting to give Jim any extra stimuli to act off of. This was a volatile situation, and he didn’t want to inflame it.

            “Oh well,” Jim sang as he lived his face from his hands. He rose and crossed in front of Sherlock, moving just out of his reach. “Did you almost start to wonder if I was real? Did I nearly get you?”        

            “Richard Brook,” Sherlock said, his first words since appearing on the rooftop.

            “Nobody seems to get the joke,” Moriarty replied. “But you do.”

            “Of course.”

            “Attaboy,” Jim droned.

            “Rich Brook in German is Reichenbach. The case that made my name.”

            “Just trying to have some fun.” The Irish accent morphed into an annoying American parody. He noted the pattern Sherlock’s fingers were tapping out behind him. “Good, you got that, too.”

            “Beats like digits,” Sherlock answered. “Every beat is a one, every rest is a zero. Binary code. That’s why all those assassins tried to save my life. It was hidden on me, hidden inside my head…”

            “Told all my clients: Last one to Sherlock is a sissy.”

            Here was the moment to test out his theory that had come to him in the lab. It would be a deviation from the other plans he and Mycroft had worked out, but he was confident in his ability to improvise. “Yes, but now that it’s up here, I can use it to alter all the records. I can kill Rich Brook and bring back Jim Moriarty.”

            Moriarty looked disappointed. Scrunching his face up he let out a string of _no’s_. “There is no key. Doofus!” He screamed at Sherlock, pushing his face close. He backed up and regained his calm briefly. His next words stripped away any hope Sherlock had of getting out of this cleanly. Moriarty revealed that there was no code; the digits that Sherlock had attached so much hope to were meaningless.

“That’s your weakness. You always want everything to be clever,” Moriarty lamented as he walked past Sherlock to the edge of the rooftop. “Now, shall we finish the game? One final act. Glad you chose a tall building. Nice way to do it.”

            It was almost uncanny how well this plan was going. Moriarty hadn’t even moved towards the gun stowed under his coat. Despite his genius, he still proved to be predictable—at least to the Holmes brothers. Still, Sherlock had to draw upon the unfamiliar feeling of panic. “Do it? Do… Do what?” A pause. “Yes. Of course. My suicide.”

            “Genius detective proved to be a fraud. I read it in the paper, so it must be true,” Moriarty said, his tone monotone and mocking. “I love newspapers: fairy tales. And pretty grim ones, too.”

            Every moment he spent looking over the edge, the more loathe he was to go through with this plan. Yes, it was the cleanest way of saving the people he cared it about, but it was the most psychologically challenging thing he had ever considered doing. For an instant, he wished that he was completely emotionally numb, that the deaths of John, Lestrade, and Mrs Hudson wouldn't devastate him. He tried to reason that he could prove who Moriarty was to the world, but Moriarty waved every protestation away as he would a pesky insect.

            In a fit of emotion, Sherlock grabbed the lapels on Moriarty’s coat and swung him over to the edge of the building. The change in footing barely rattled the dark-eyed man. “You’re insane,” Sherlock breathed, almost incredulously. Certainly, Moriarty was brilliant, a wit that he had never before encountered, but it was tainted. Deep down, Moriarty’s spring of knowledge was poisoned by the constant black drip of madness. Had it not been that way, Sherlock wondered what he would be to him. The Woman’s mind also ran deep, but where Jim’s was tainted, hers ran through strange tunnels and passageways to obfuscate each plan. She was Sherlock and Jim, but without the fear of human error or lunacy.

            In that moment The Woman reappeared beside Sherlock, gazing down at Moriarty with murderous contempt. _“Why don’t you just…let go?”_

            Sherlock very nearly did, but Moriarty made a sort of panicked conciliatory sound. “Okay. Let me give you a little extra incentive: your friends will die if you don’t.”

            “John?”

            “Not just John. Everyone.”

            “Mrs Hudson?”

            “ _Everyone_.”

            “Lestrade?”

            “Three bullets, three gunman, three victims. There’s no stopping them now.”

            _“At least you know he thinks I’m dead,”_ The Woman said smugly. _“Because we both know he’d be dragging me out now if he had me."_

            “Unless my people see you jump,” Moriarty amended as Sherlock jerked him back over the edge. Sherlock stared over the edge, at what was supposed to kill him and allowed Jim to gloat. “You can have me arrested. You can torture me. You can do anything you like with me. But nothing’s going to prevent them from pulling the trigger. Your only three friends in the world will die. Unless…”

            “Unless I kill myself, complete your story,” Sherlock finished.

            Moriarty gave a dry chuckle. “You’ve got to admit, that’s sexier.”

            _Brainy’s the new sexy_.

            _“It will be quite brainy if you actually hit the pavement,”_ The Woman quipped. Sherlock almost gave her the satisfaction of responding to the poor joke by mentally rolling his eyes, but he stayed focused.

            “And I die in disgrace,” Sherlock continued.

            “Of course, that’s the point of this,” Moriarty replied as though Sherlock were really quite dull.

            At Moriarty’s urging, Sherlock stepped forward towards the edge, and The Woman followed.

            “Your death is the only thing that’s going to call off the killers. I’m certainly not going to do it.”

            Sherlock thought he felt the ghost of The Woman’s hand against his own. “Would you give me one moment, please? One moment of privacy?” He was speaking to Moriarty, but wondered if he ought to be shutting down this strange hallucination of The Woman as well. “Please?”

            “Of course.” Moriarty turned and started walking towards the other end of the roof. The Woman stepped up onto the ledge with Sherlock and looked out over London, the wind whipping her hair. She would never see London again, and Sherlock wondered if he would too.

            _“Have you thought about what would happen if the rope snaps?”_ The Woman asked conversationally as she stood on the edge. He could see her bare feet, her toes curled over the edge of the precipice.

_“It won’t.”_

_“No, of course not. You and Big Brother have sorted everything out. Really, this has been a wonderful plan. Can’t wait to see how it plays out.”_

They stood together on that edge almost companionably, then another thought struck Sherlock. His belief that he had a code that would save his life proved to be false, but at this moment he was willing to test any exit he could. So he began to laugh. Softly, until it crescendoed to full volume.

            “What?” Moriarty asked exasperated from several steps behind. “What is it? What did I miss?” Sherlock hopped down and strode as confidently as he could over to Moriarty.

“You’re not going to do it?” Sherlock parroted from earlier. “So the killers can be called off, then, there’s a recall code or word or number. I don’t have to die…” then, in a sing-song voice so reminiscent of the man before him. “…if I’ve got you.”

“Oh!” Moriarty gasped.

 _“This is ridiculous,”_ The Woman griped. _“There’s no way this is going to work. You’re obviously stalling right now. It looks pathetic, too.”_

As ever, Sherlock ignored her and spun a speech for Moriarty, one that put him in the light Moriarty had wanted to put him in (one he rather wanted to be in as well). He made himself an equal. Sherlock had wondered why Moriarty hadn’t decided to make Mycroft his target of torment—especially since he was widely reputed to be the cleverer of the Holmes boys—but as he spoke he realized why. Yes, Mycroft Holmes was wise and devious and infinitely clever, but he was also bureaucratically boring and never stretched outside of his rigid moral code. Mycroft knew he was a genius, but it didn’t suit him to let every one know it, he didn’t call attention to it.

Sherlock was different. He preached his intellect and lauded his own sociopathy, standing by it religiously. Just as Moriarty was likely to kill anyone he didn’t fancy, Sherlock was equally likely to kill to keep his life in order—and he’d do it himself.

His rescue of The Woman had been a smaller example of this disposition. He had, with very little thought to the morality of it all, deceived and killed to save her life. That night he had killed twenty-three men, a number he remembered offhand, and not because he was wracked with guilt. Twenty-three had died because he’d felt that saving The Woman was an equal trade. Twenty-three had died to put his mind at ease.

Sherlock wasn’t afraid to get his hands dirty; he’d flown to Pakistan intent on committing murder; he’d come up onto this roof with the knowledge that one of the scenarios involved him killing Moriarty, and he’d accepted it willingly.

“I am you,” he intoned. “Prepared to do anything. Prepared to burn. Prepared to do what ordinary people won’t do. You want me to shake hands with you in hell? I shall not disappoint you.”

Still, Moriarty seemed unconvinced. “Nah,” he said almost glumly. “You talk big. Nah. You’re ordinary. You’re ordinary, you’re on the side of the angels.”

“Oh, I may be on the side of the angels,” Sherlock susurrated menacingly. “But don’t think for one second that I am one of them.”

Perhaps the fact that Sherlock truly believed his own words shone through and convinced Moriarty. Even the less savoury things he had done, he believed to be justified because they were done for the right reasons—though they were _his_ right reasons.

“No,” Moriarty said softly. “You’re not.” An almost drunken grin. “I see. You’re not ordinary. No. You’re me. You’re me! Thank you, Sherlock Holmes.” He looked down and extended his hand in gratitude. Sherlock took it and shook it, his mind trying to piece together possible outcomes to this turn of events. Moriarty’s eyes were teary; he appeared to be overcome by emotion. “Thank you. Bless you. As long as I’m alive you can save your friends. You’ve got a way out.”

 _“Something’s wrong,”_ The Woman cautioned, her voice full of the tension that was now resting in Sherlock’s neck and shoulders.

“Well good luck with that,” Moriarty continued, then he grinned a huge open-mouthed grin and placed his gun inside against his tongue. He pulled the trigger, still grasping Sherlock’s hand, before Sherlock could really process what was going on. The explosion that the gun emitted seemed much louder as blood and brain matter flew out with the bullet and Moriarty fell to the ground. In that second he had thought that the gun was for him, but trust Moriarty to take a game to a lethal extreme.

            He took gasping breaths, staring down at Moriarty's corpse, as he pulled his mobile from his pocket and texted LAZARUS to an anonymous number. In just a few second’s Mycroft’s men would swarm the roof and set that particular plan in motion. He stepped towards the ledge again with The Woman trailing behind him as the rooftop door swung open and a team of men began doing their jobs. No questions were asked; any communication between the men was done with hand gestures.

            Below, he could see John exiting a cab; he pressed the call button on his mobile and watched as John picked up immediately. This was going to be the hardest part, this was the part he had tried to rearrange, but he and Mycroft knew that John couldn’t know. John was too ordinary, too easy to read. Though he was more loyal than anyone Sherlock knew, he wasn’t infallible. If he knew that Sherlock was alive, the whole world would as well.

            “Hello?” John answered as he strode towards the hospital.

            “John.”

            “Hey, Sherlock, you okay?”

            “Turn around and walk back the way you came.”

            “No, I’m coming in.”

            “Just do as I ask! Please.”

            _“Oh, you’re rather good. I wonder where you’re getting this emotion from… Have you finally grasped how devastating it was for me when took my life away? Now you’re being forced to_ give _yours up.”_

Briefly, and image of The Woman in Mycroft’s study appeared before him, tears rolling down her cheeks as he showed her her unlocked mobile. Tears sprang to his own eyes, and a tremor developed in his throat.

            John had spotted him up on the rooftop, and would surely start to put things together.

            “I…I can’t come down, so we’ll just have to do it like this.”

            “What’s going on?”

            “An apology. It’s all true. Everything they said about me. I invented Moriarty.” He turned his head and saw Mycroft’s team unpacking clothes identical to Sherlock’s while two others worked on placing the mould of Sherlock’s face on Moriarty's and matching the hair. They were all counting on John being in too much shock to properly scrutinise the body. Besides, only Sherlock was prone to taking a magnifying glass to corpses, John only did so when required to.

            “I’m a fake. The newspapers were right all along. I want you to tell Lestrade. I want you to tell Mrs Hudson. And Molly. In fact, tell anyone who will listen to you that I created Moriarty for my own purposes.”

            “Okay, shut up, Sherlock, shut up. The first time we met, the first time we met you knew all about my sister.”

            _“You’re never going to convince him,”_ The Woman said, swaying dangerously on the edge. _“You just need to satisfy Moriarty’s hit men, which shouldn’t be too difficult. They’re just here to kill a sham detective’s friends.”_

            “Nobody could be that clever,” Sherlock insisted.

            “You could.”

            Really, John’s faith in him was touching. “I researched you. Before we met, I discovered everything I could to impress you. It’s a trick. Just a magic trick.”

            “No, all right, stop it now.” John began to stride towards the hospital.

            “No, stay exactly where you are! Don’t move!” Sherlock cried out, loud enough that he wondered if he could be heard from the ground. He stretched his hand out and felt his balance shift, but someone had already hooked the brace to him under his coat and tapped him on the ankle. He could go anytime now; he just needed to find the right moment. This was going to be traumatic enough for John.

            With his free hand raised, John backed up into his original spot. Conciliatory. No doubt his training when dealing with suicidal people was beginning to kick in. “All right.”

            “Keep your eyes fixed on me!” Sherlock commanded. Like a good magician, he had created a diversion; something that John would not be able to help looking at. He wouldn’t notice all the other players around him getting ready to play their part. John would only see his friend plummeting to his death; he wouldn’t see the man with the needle, ready to take away half a minute of his memory. He wouldn’t hear the crash of glass as Sherlock burst through a window. He wouldn’t detect Moriarty under Sherlock’s dead face.

            “This phone call, it’s—it’s my note. It’s what people do, don’t they? Leave a note?”

            The Woman had left a note. No, she hadn’t been about to end her life at her hand, but she had been reckless. It had been suicide for her to continue living her life as Irene Adler after fleeing Britain, but she couldn’t resist. Sherlock didn’t know if she’d been able to get in touch with anyone else during her captivity, but he found it telling that she’d selected him for her farewell message. Perhaps he was the only one who would have been able to understand.

            A part of him was disappointed that John was being taken in so easily. Down there on the pavement, his best and only friend really truly believed that Sherlock was contemplating taking his own life. He was probably in agonies at his inability to do anything about it. Now The Woman, The Woman wouldn’t have believed him at all. The Woman was intimately acquainted with faking her death for her own good. She’d understand faking death for the good of others. She’d have played along, of course, but she wouldn’t have believed. John believed.

            “Good bye, John,” Sherlock said. He shut his ears to John’s pleas, and threw the mobile off to the side.

            The Woman stood at attention beside him, studying his face. He managed to compose it, take in a few deep breaths. This was it, the final step, the final problem. Giddily, he let himself feel the pull of gravity as he began to let himself tip over the edge.

            _“Go ahead,”_ The Woman encouraged. _“You’re nearly there.”_ Then: _“Will you find me?”_

_“No. You’re finished.”_

            And he fell over the edge. The Woman fell too, at the same rate as him, just as fast she plummeted to the ground. Only when he felt the rope strain and resist, pulling him back up, she hit the ground with a sickening thud. He heard and felt her skull connect with the pavement, blood pooling around her dark head immediately and soaking into his coat. She was finished. He saw himself, a weaker version anyway, lying on the ground beside her as the momentum pulled him level with Molly’s window and he hurled himself through.

            Down below people were moving to their stations like clockwork. Some were cleaning up the glass; others were making sure that John was delayed until the right moment. The rest were placing Moriarty masqueraded body on the pavement, over where he imagined The Woman’s corpse to be. How sickeningly ironic that John would be grieving over the body of the man that had made all of this possible and necessary.

            Molly had just finished sweeping the corridor for possible witnesses, and had Sherlock’s disguise on hand along with all of the essentials for him to leave the country within the hour. Molly Hooper. One of the strongest, most human people he knew. In a fit of gratitude, he stooped and took her face in his hands, placing a tender kiss upon her lips. He had no illusions about her feelings for him; he knew that they had largely motivated her to go along with this insane plan. He also knew that this was the best and only way to really thank her.

            As she caught her breath, he released her, took up his bag, and walked out. In the hall he was totally alone. No hallucination followed him, no echo of a conscience niggled at him. He had entered a monochromatic, centred mode that was reserved for cases that truly required all of his will and stamina. A mode with no emotion, no caring, no regrets.

            At the loading bay of the hospital waited a dark government car that Sherlock quickly ducked into. The back was empty and no communication was necessary, as the driver pulled away the moment Sherlock had shut the door behind him. With a sigh, he tilted his head back against the seat and shut his eyes as he entered his mind palace, which for once was not filled with the click of stilettos.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for making it this far, it means a lot to me. And thank you to all who have commented or messaged me, you're the reason I'm still plugging away at this damn thing. Please, tell me what you think. Tell me what I've gotten wrong, what I've gotten right. And then go and write your own stories. This fandom is my favourite and needs more contributors. 
> 
> (Moment of self-promotion: visit me at ildfull.tumblr.com)


	5. SIS Building, Lambeth, London, UK

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock returns to London after his two years hunting down the members of Moriarty's network, but has anything (or anyone) returned with him? He certainly hopes not.

Sherlock had not slept since his capture (and eventual stilted rescue at the hands of Mycroft) in Serbia, but even in the belly of the SIS building where Mycroft’s office (at least the one there) was located, he was unable to completely relax. Just moments after arriving, Mycroft’s personal barber appeared and began setting up silently. The elder Holmes brother took a seat at his desk and began going through his bursting inbox, shredding large quantities of paper as he went. When the barber was finished with his preparations, he silently motioned for Sherlock to be seated.

            Perhaps it was the change of scene, the fact that he’d never been this deep into his brother’s government sanctum, or the fact that a stranger was holding a razor blade to his neck, but Sherlock was still unable to completely relax. He’d been on edge for two years, constantly on the move, his mind never quieting. Now he was back in London, his work deemed finished, and the idea that the nightmare was all over was just beginning to sink in a bit.

            Mycroft tossed a newspaper across the room, which landed in Sherlock’s lap. Gingerly, he picked it up and read the front page. The big black headline (strange how English now appeared mildly foreign to him) read SKELETON MYSTERY. Sherlock skimmed the articles on the front page and found very little that could be considered useful or even interesting. He folded it and dropped it in his lap.

            “You have been busy, haven’t you?” Mycroft proclaimed. “Quite the busy little bee.” He chuckled, but as usual it was mirthless.

            Both Mycroft and Sherlock had made a study of mimicking common human emotions and expressions, so much so that they sometimes forgot that they needn’t keep them up in front of each other. The chuckling was just one example.

           “Moriarty’s network,” Sherlock answered, lightly resting his hands on the arms of the chair he was laid back in, still not entirely at ease—though he imagined that Mycroft didn’t want him to be. “Took me two years to dismantle it.”

            “And you’re confident you have?” Mycroft re-joined, his voice carefully modulated to be politely enquiring.

            “The Serbian side was the last piece of the puzzle.”

            “Yes. You got yourself in deep there with Baron Maupertius. Quite a scheme,” Mycroft said, with the air of someone reading the next weeks weather report and finding a good deal of rain.

            This conversation was already becoming tiresome. Mycroft never discussed obvious topics unless he thought that by doing so he could uncover information that he suspected was being hid from him. That Mycroft would be suspicious of Sherlock in turn made Sherlock suspicious. He was quite aware that his movements had been tracked to the best of his brother’s ability over the past two years, and he had not deviated from the plan. Not once. Not even when…

            “Colossal,” Sherlock said drily.

            “Anyway,” Mycroft replied, his voice suddenly brisk. “You’re safe now.” A pause, where Sherlock made a small noise in his throat to signify that he’d heard. Mycroft became clearly frustrated. “A small ‘thank you’ wouldn’t go amiss.”

            Sherlock had rather missed frustrating his elder brother, and did not deviate. “What for?”

            “For wading in. In case you’ve forgotten, field work is not my natural _milieu_.” Sherlock raised an arm to stop the barber; he felt this conversation warranted not being on his back. With a grunt, for his injuries were still quite fresh, Sherlock sat up and stared at his brother.

            “Wading in?” he repeated with distain. “You sat there and watched me get beaten to a pulp!”

            “I got you out.”

            “No, _I_ got me out.”

           

Of course, Sherlock understood why his brother had done what he had done in the way that he had done it, but it did still smart. If Mycroft was going to insert himself into Sherlock’s investigations and mission, then it would have been jolly nice of him to do more than watch. Indeed, why Mycroft—who had just admitted to not particularly liking field world—had felt the need to send himself instead of a more specially trained agent was beyond him. It was almost as though he didn’t trust him…

            Sherlock was no stranger to arranging escapes, especially ones that needed to be kept very secret. In the case of him saving The Woman, he had recognised that it would be best to leave the saving to the very last moment, the moment before she had her head cut off. Similarly, Mycroft had felt that saving Sherlock only after he had been running wild through the forest and after being beaten and sleep-deprived was necessary. The main differences between these instances was that Sherlock had needed to hide The Woman’s survival from the whole world, not least the British Government. Mycroft _was_ the British Government, which gave him much more latitude when it came to extracting an agent. All in all, Mycroft had been rotten about the whole thing. Clearly, he wasn’t sure he could trust his own brother. _But why?_

            Remembering The Woman sent his mind hurtling along a separate track, and he wondered if she could have had anything to do with his brother’s untoward behaviour. The last time he had seen her, in the flesh, face to face, had been on the Pakistani coastline all that time ago. But no, that wasn’t entirely true, was it?

 

His shave was done and Mycroft seemed to be winding down with his questions and chary attitude. Anthea—his brother’s bland but very capable assistant—appeared at the door with his very loved and missed Belstaff coat. The moment he shrugged it on he felt as though he was in complete control of his faculties and the situation.

            “Thank you,” Sherlock said. “Blood.” He turned to leave but Mycroft’s voice stopped him.

            “You know, brother dear, there are parts of your mission that seem a little odd and out of character,” Mycroft droned, teacup in hand. “If I hadn’t been tracking the movements and whereabouts of a certain woman, I would have almost attributed these anomalies to her intervention.”

            He was in London, freshly bathed, clad in his favourite clothes, having killed many people to return. Sherlock was in control, there was nothing his brother could do to upset his poise and grasp on his world. His breathing didn’t hitch, his eyes didn’t dilate for a second. He looked directly into Mycroft’s face and spoke in unwavering syllables, the way he imagined a shark would if it had the capacity of speech.

            “Yes, I imagine it’s no trouble to track the remains of a dead woman. Especially when you know who has the ashes.”

            Mycroft actually gaped and very slowly set his teacup in it’s saucer on his desk, it made a rattling sound as porcelain came in contact with porcelain. “What?”

            “I know that she is dead, Mycroft. Did you really think that kind of information would elude me?”

            “But John—”

            “Yes, I’m sure that you and John were under the impression that telling me a falsehood about that Woman would spare my tender and delicate feelings,” he said those words with disdain. “But I had been aware from almost the moment of her passing. Word of the death of scheming dominatrices travels quickly, and I most certainly had my ear to the ground, so to speak.”

            “But you kept the mobile—”

            “A trophy,” Sherlock supplied promptly. “Of course, you and John would ascribe it to sentimentality, so I took it. It was so _clearly_ what you wanted to believe.”

            Mycroft was still thunderstruck, something that Sherlock was immensely pleased at. Back home and within hours shocking his brother, it was like Christmas. After a few breaths Mycroft collected himself, it was almost like a machine rebooting. “Then why play along at all? You don’t conform to anyone’s ideas of you.”

            Sherlock sighed wearily. “To shut up that case for good. You and I both know that The Woman made proper fools out of the pair of us, obviously neither of us would wish to discuss that case very much. Giving you the end you expected seemed the best way to do that.”

            “‘The Woman,’” Mycroft mused.

            “As for any anomalies you have spotted in my work,” Sherlock continued. “I will only say that at times my methods weren’t exactly up to snuff and I was forced to deviate. I hope that you will remember this sacrifice I have performed for my country and agree to leave these past two years in the past. I certainly intend to.”

 

            Out in the crisp London air Sherlock felt almost immediately rejuvenated. He walked out of the SIS building and headed directly for the Vauxhall Bridge. The river Thames rushed below him, and London’s people rushed past and beside him. How strange it was to realise that had missed every single one of them in his own way.

            He walked for about half an hour in deep thought before he realised where he was: Belgravia. Eaton Square, to be exact. And down the road he could see _her_ house. He cursed himself, he cursed his mind. Two years of militant control over his mind, over his every (waking) thought and this is the place his body transported him to when he wasn’t paying attention. Upon Mycroft’s questioning he had felt elated that he had been about to answer to callously, he’d meant every word too. But still, somehow, this place called to him.

             She had sometimes come to him in dreams when he slept, or when he slipped into delirium, heavy-lidded and seductive. In his sapped subconscious her velvety voice had wound itself around him and kept him under until he was fully rested. It was strangely comforting, though certainly a paradox. He knew that The Woman wasn't one to smooth the brows of weary travelers. (No, she was more for beating brows, wasn't she?) He'd chalked these appearances up to the workings of an exhausted mind and thought no more of them. After all, didn't the faces of strangers often appear in his dreams? In everybody's dreams?

             Just before he’d gone on into Serbia, he had been in Montenegro, flushing out a corrupt politician that Moriarty had long had in his pocket. What he’d learned from the man was that Moriarty had had another man—an accountant or something—working for him who was also in Montenegro. When he’d tracked down the man’s residence, he’d found him dead. Quite dead. Dead for at least a few days in his bedroom where he was naked, bound and gagged, with his throat very much slit and drained.

            The odds of this man’s death being coincidental weren’t very good, but Sherlock returned to the politician’s house the next day to inquire further. He’d found the man in a similar situation, also dead. Upon finding the accountant’s body, he’d wondered if a member of Moriarty’s network he hadn’t been able to apprehend had assassinated him, and the strange circumstances were used as misdirection—a crime of passion, say. But finding the politician in the same position brought to light a signature, one that he had tried to make the world think was dead.

            Within the next three hours he was standing in the shadows of The Woman’s house and peering through her upper windows. She was there. By coincidence or on purpose, she and Sherlock were within mere metres of each other after years. Knowing her the way he did, he was certain that she had no knowledge of his being in Montenegro, for if she had she would have sought him out, as was her nature. For several moments he stood across the street, battling with himself. If he stayed much longer, Mycroft would surely pick up on it and investigate.

            He was fairly sure he had enough bargaining power to take care of The Woman if Mycroft were to discover that she was alive (and quite active doing the devil knew what), but he wasn’t sure that he wanted to use that power now—or ever. He had seen her silhouette (he would surely never forget that) approach a front window and he’d turned on his heel and disappeared into the shadows. That had been that.

            In an alleyway he found a route up onto a high rooftop and took up his residence there. Standing on the edge he took in the city’s scents and sounds, welcoming them all back into his senses. He’d left London by way of a rooftop, and now he felt as though he was returning to it via one. It was all very symmetrical. It was all very lonely once again. That last evening on the rooftop of St Bart’s hospital he’d been alone but for his mind’s rendering of The Woman. As he’d jumped to his pseudo-death, he’d ensured that she plummeted all the way down to hers. It had worked, not a whisper in his ear since had bothered him.

            And he meant to keep it that way. The sun began to set and he decided that it was time that someone welcomed him back. He made his way down to the street and set off towards Marylebone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter (as with most of the chapters before it) has really taken quite a lot of creative juice to get out. The idea was there, but it was ephemeral and always shifting. Hopefully I've managed to crystallise it so as to be understandable to other minds besides my own. 
> 
> As always, please bookmark, comment, share, subscribe, or bother me at ildfull.tumblr.com. Your support has been invaluable, especially as this is still a rather small ship.


	6. 221B Baker Street, Marylebone, London, UK

This Mayfly Man case was driving him mad, but in a refreshing way. As soon as his mind had been freed from the haze of alcohol (he was now remembering why he hadn’t partaken of it vociferously since university) he had charged into the work like a bull seeing red. He’d gathered up all of the computers in the flat and begun searching the web for anything that matched the story of—oh, what was her name? The nurse woman.

About an hour in he had stumbled upon a forum that appeared promising: a collection of personal anecdotes mirroring the story of the woman from John’s stag-do. He’d been pursuing a promising line of questioning when… _she_ had appeared. It was like a glitch in some software or the lights flickering: a small error that was almost expected, and he’d felt that he’d handled it remarkably well. He’d commanded her to leave and she had left.

She’d slipped in while he was sorting through the different Mayfly Man stories in his mind palace, just another figure between one dumpy depressive and another—though obviously nude. Gloriously nude. Sherlock had never had an occasion (or indeed a desire) to describe anyone as gloriously nude, but that’s how he described The Woman.

 

Once the last woman signed out of the chat room, Sherlock shut the laptop and rubbed his forehead contemplatively. Perhaps it was time to pursue a smoking habit once again. He sensed that John and Mary were long gone, and that Mrs Hudson was busy with whatever she did downstairs. Moving unnecessarily stealthily, Sherlock popped into his room and removed a single cigarette from a stash stored in an old slipper, which he had relocated to his closet.

He grabbed a lighter from the pocket of an old cardigan and lit the cigarette as he pushed up the bedroom window, to better disguise the smell of smoke. Exhaling almost orgastically (it really had been too long), Sherlock felt a presence in his mind, just bobbing at the surface.

_“I’ll talk to you, I suppose. But no touching.”_

_In an instant The Woman was sitting in the window with him, eyeing him coyly. “You can’t really touch me—and I can’t really touch you—I’m a figment of your imagination.”_

_She reached across and plucked the cigarette from his fingers and took a long drag. Sherlock would have been annoyed if she had really done that, but this was his mind and he continued to puff away on the physical cigarette. After taking a deep drag, she passed it back to him. He observed the slight stain of red of where the cigarette had come in contact with her lip varnish before inhaling more nicotine into his system._

_“Why did you have to show like that?” Sherlock sighed wearily along with an exhalation of smoke._

_“It was the most interesting thing you’ve come across in months,” The Woman replied smugly._

_“Oh, so I am to expect your intrusions every time I encounter an interesting case, am I?”_

_“No need to sound so despondent about it. I might have had viable information.”_

_Sherlock snorted derisively. “I highly doubt that.”_

_“It’s unlike you to refuse to pursue every line of inquiry,” The Woman shot back._

_“I don’t want to discuss this case with you,” Sherlock said stubbornly. When The Woman opened her mouth to presumably protest, he barrelled on. “The more I involve you in my thinking, the more I’ll rely on you. You’ll become a crutch. That’s why I sent you thousands of miles away, though I admit to believing—naively—that your memory would be benign. I see now I’m wrong. Nothing about you is benign.”_

_“A crutch?” The Woman repeated fiercely. “And how is John Watson different? Lestrade? That mousy pathologist?_ Mycroft _?”_

_“They’re all real!” Sherlock exclaimed, flicking the cigarette out the window irritably._

_The Woman’s hand shot forward and grasped his wrist in an iron grip. “_ I’m _real too.”_

_Sherlock wrenched his arm away and moved away from the window, keeping his back to her. “True, but you’re continents away and you’ve succeeded in alienating many powerful people, not least the head of the British government.”_

_“No thanks to you,” she retorted, and Sherlock felt his shoulders tighten._

_“Quite right,” he said in clipped tones._

_“You’re going to need someone like me,” The Woman said in his ear, he sensed her just behind him. “With the impending marriage of the good Dr Watson, you’ll need someone like me—preferably the real me.”_

_“You just want to return to the country.”_

_“No,_ you _want me to. I’m just a shadow of the real thing. It's your mind that is generating all of this.”_

“Sherlock!” Mrs Hudson’s voice broke his concentration and he was transported to the real state of his room. “It smells like smoke in here,” she said reprovingly. “What would John say?”

“Nothing,” Sherlock replied. “You’re not going to tell him.”

Mrs Hudson huffed and retreated from his doorway. A moment later he heard her return to the downstairs and then the sound of the kettle whistling. Was it tea time already? He hoped she would make him a cup; he certainly couldn’t be bothered. Almost with trepidation, he glanced at the open window, but found it empty.

His thoughts returned to the case of the Mayfly Man, and he invariably wondered about what kind of information The Woman could have—or was connected to—that would be useful. All evening his oscillated between chasing that line of inquiry to letting it be, eventually deciding that it would be ultimately be imprudent. Even if it meant that the case remain unsolved, at least it would save his mind from developing any more bad habits.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for taking so long in posting, and sorry that this will no doubt be shorter than expected. Fear not, though, for I plan on making the next few chapters a good deal longer. 
> 
> As always, comments, kudos, bookmarks, and subscriptions are very much appreciated. If you have any questions or comments you'd like to get to me quickly, you can find me at ildfull.tumblr.com
> 
> Cheers!


	7. Sutton Mallet, Stawell, UK

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock during "The Sign of Three".

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So very sorry for the long wait, but school has been taking up my time, plus I'm selling my house. Also, the muse seems to have jumped into one of my boxes and I've had to go digging to bring her back out. As always, comments, kudos, subscriptions are love. Haunt me at ildfull.tumblr.com

“But from now on there is a new adventure,” Sherlock was saying. “A bigger adventure. Ladies and gentlemen, pray charge your glasses and be upstanding. Today begin the adventures of Mary Elizabeth Watson and John Hamish Watson. The two reasons why every single one of us is…”

The flashes from the photographer’s camera were almost blinding, almost ear-splitting. In the afterimage he could see The Woman’s form standing just behind the bloody photographer’s shoulder, head cocked, eyebrow raised.

_Hamish._

It all happened instantly, everything that his mind needed rushed to the surface, including some things that he _definitely did not_ need. He remembered the nurse-woman, not her name but the name that she had mentioned: John Hamish Watson. Hamish, Hamish, Hamish. Nobody knew that name—except _The Woman_.

She stood in front of him, running a red nail down the side of his face sensually, though her face seemed to say, _I tried to tell you._

 _"Out of my head, I am busy.”_ She was blessedly gone again, but Sherlock suspected that was short-lived as he continued his questioning. Back and forth the queries bounded across his mind, and just as quickly he answered them.

Struggling to get his bearings and his mind on track, Sherlock rushed through the list of people who would know that name. The guests! Yes, of course, John and Mary had included their middle names. It had been hilarious, that’s right. But how did the nurse know? The nurse hadn’t been invited; John had barely remembered his stag-do—but she’d _known_ —about the name, about the wedding. He doubted anyone else had purloined his birth certificate; it was an antic that simply no one else would get up to.

Mycroft loomed omnipresent in his mind, and Sherlock briefly considered that he would have preferred one of The Woman’s intrusions. At least there was no decades-old bitterness between them.

_"What do we say about coincidence?”_

_“The universe is rarely so lazy,” Sherlock shot back like it was an axiom he had learned at school._ Indeed, it was an axiom of some sort between him and his elder brother.

 _“So, the balance of probability is…”_ Damn Mycroft, damn him and his schoolmarm questions.

 _“Someone went to great lengths to find out something about this wedding.”_ Sherlock finished the thought all the same. Much as he hated it, this kind of interaction was his and Mycroft’s; it was the dance they had always performed.

            _“What lengths?”_

_“They lied. Assumed false identities.”_

_“Which suggests?”_

_“Criminal intent.”_

_“_ Also _suggests…”_

_“Intelligence. Planning.”_

_“Clearly.”_ That half-lidded, lazy, insolent gaze; how he loathed it. _“But more importantly…”_

He was dimly aware of the sound of shattering glass, no doubt a ruckus was going on because of his behaviour, but this was all too important. He couldn’t exit his mind palace just yet; he was on the brink of discovery. The part of him that needed to be the scrambled, suggested that this was all mere coincidence. _A mistake._

_“The Mayfly Man. The Mayfly Man is…”_

“…here today.”

He had often retreated into his mind palace in the presence of others but never had he commanded the attention of an entire room while being preoccupied. Still, he dimly thought that it had all gone as smoothly as possible. Another champagne flute was handed to him—stupid, why did he need to be holding a drink to talk about John and Mary? —and he struggled to return to the speech. Mycroft still hovered in his mind, prompting him, poking him in the back, distracting him.

People were starting to look uncomfortable, were outright staring. Even Mrs Hudson and Lestrade looked confused at his performance. It didn’t matter, though, this was a gift. He’d just been lamenting about failing to solve this case, and now it was back within his reach. Mycroft was urging him to take control of the room, and that was what he was bloody well going to do now.

He sat the rest of the room down like a magician and leapt over the table to walk amongst the guests. No doubt he was spouting some sort of gibberish, anything to keep the focus on him and away from leaving the room. Some part of his brain was supplying nouns and verbs and weaving them into anecdotes, no doubt some of them were quite mad, but that didn’t matter. He had a murderer to catch, and God knew who the murderer was trying to murder. Needed to sort that, but needed someone on his side. Jeff was off to lock the room down, thankfully, but now he needed his doctor. It seemed that John was ready to butt in.

“Sherlock, any chance of an end date for this speech? Got to cut the cake.” John’s eyes were broadcasting that what Sherlock was currently engaged in was Not Good, but that didn’t matter. None of this mattered when there was a murderer to catch, especially one who had eluded him for so long.

With a grin, Sherlock whirled around to face John. “Oh! Ladies and gentlemen, can’t stand it when I finally get the chance to speak for once. Vatican Cameos.” Just a glance told him that John had understood, that Mary was intrigued, and he now had two people on his side. Too bad they were the bride and groom, but one couldn’t quibble with those sorts of details when it came to solving puzzles. He made his way over to John, who rose to attention like the good Army doctor he was and asked what he could do. The wedding part dissolved, this was just another case and they might as well be bystanders somewhere in London.

“Don’t solve the murder, save the life,” Sherlock said, his mind still whirring at trying to find the proper suspects to pursue.

Turning back to the crowd he began talking himself through his process, he’d thought it was all in his head until Mrs Hudson began throwing back tart rejoinders. Still be barrelled on, erasing people from his view as their presence became irrelevant. During his list of his murderous mental exercises, an image of him beheading The Woman in Karachi sprang to mind. What if he had gone through with the job the terrorists had given to him? All that work to get that assignment, and he hadn't even completed it.

Unbidden, his mind jumped to early the next morning after rescuing The Woman, and the more human part of himself admitted that all the trouble had been worth it in the long run. Lesser men than he had gone to great lengths to bed women, though he wasn't entirely sure that had been part of his plan until The Woman presented it.

That was quickly swept aside when the little boy Archie piped up with “the Invisible Man could have done it”. Sherlock never thought he would be grateful for children, but in that moment he was. With those words, the next piece of the puzzle fell perfectly into place. How lucky it had been that he'd chosen to recount the story of the mysteriously stabbed guardsman, how lucky there was one mind in the room that had been intrigued instead of disgusted by that revelation. The Mayfly Man and the Invisible Man were one and the same, two monikers was too many for any criminal, murderer or no. 

 

***

 

Dancing with Janine was as good a way as any to pass the time it took for Lestrade to collect the bloody photographer. No doubt, he would have been more motivated if Sherlock had been more clear about _why_ he wished to have him collected, but that just didn't fit with Sherlock's style. Janine wasn't a terrible dance partner for a novice, but Sherlock couldn't help but compare her to the last woman he'd danced with so she might as well have had a wooden leg. Strangely, he found himself enjoying her company and her obvious fascination with him. He seemed to have a weakness for women who were enthralled by him, and he acknowledged that it probably came from a very egocentric part of himself.

Finally, Lestrade arrived with the photographer, and John and Mary made their entrance which allowed Sherlock to bring the case to a close as dramatically as he knew how. With a sense of accomplishment, he handed the reins over to Lestrade, so to speak, and walked Janine into the dance hall. The other guests were wrapped up in their little worlds and conversations and didn't notice them at once, which Sherlock was grateful for.

 

Sherlock had found that since the fateful case in Belgravia, his violin had the tendency of calling up ghosts, no matter how hard he tried to suppress them. As he began playing the piece he composed for John and Mary he saw a pale form appear in his periphery. She stood there silently through to the end and stayed up at the dais as Sherlock made his way to John and Mary, his head spinning enough from his inadvertent prediction enough to ignore her.

But as he felt the strangeness of the room, the people dancing and laughing, surround him he allowed her to float to his side. He welcomed her presence in the foyer as he collected his coat and walked out into the crisp evening light. Somewhere he knew that it was a bit odd for a best man to leave at the beginning of the wedding party, but he’d never been one to keep with those sorts of traditions. Dancing and singing and drinking had never been his thing, that’s probably why he’d only ever been to two parties at university.

In the darkness, separated from the revelry going on inside he was alone, and alone is what he wanted. All day he'd tried to be a version of himself that he thought would be more palatable to John and Mary's normal people, and he was exhausted by it. He looked forward to the almost-three-hour drive he had ahead of him. (Why John and Mary had insisted on getting married so far away from where they lived was beyond him.) Across the green patch of grass, he could see the car he’d rented in the corner of the car park, nestled between other guests’ cars, totally inconspicuous. So the silhouette he glimpsed in the passenger seat was a slight shock to his system, considering her chimera walked silently beside him.


End file.
